


Pokémon Arena

by AchillesAmpharos



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pokemon
Genre: Gen, Hunger Games, Inspired by The Hunger Games, Pokemon - Freeform, Pokemon Battle, Pokemon Fanfiction, Pokemon Journey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:38:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AchillesAmpharos/pseuds/AchillesAmpharos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, thirty-six youths are picked from the prison system, assigned a monster companion and trained to compete in a free-for-all trial by combat: Pokémon Arena.</p><p>(TL;DR It's like the Hunger Games but the kids are armed with monsters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Protect the World from Devastation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, trainers and welcome to Pokémon Arena. With this series, I wanted to bring something new to the fandom, something smarter, darker, that focuses more on characters and real suspense than fan service.
> 
> I'd like to thank Mike and Steve for the late-night shit-shooting sessions that became this work.
> 
> Chapters are broken up into parts for easier reading. Think of the (-0-) marks as commercial breaks.

**ŚIVA**

**  
**

      Mahogany Town is one of those places that acts how it looks. Mountains rise up on all sides, shielding the good country folk from the dangers of the modern world. The homes and mom 'n' pop shops are all built from dark, ancient wood, with roofs that slant downwards like open books. Way back during the Conquest, Mahogany Town was a breeding ground for ninjas, warriors of principle that waited in the shadows and struck when their prey was weakest. They're gone now, wiped out by years of peace and technology, but Mahogany Town never stopped fighting.

      "Go, go, go!"

      "Crush him!"

      "Fire, light him on fire!"

      The crowd nearly tore out the railings over the battle pit as beasts clashed for their entertainment. The creatures' trainers stood over the pit, issuing commands, faces red and eyes wide. There was money on the line for them, lots of money. The challenger: an elephant, barely as high as your hip, its back calloused like armor. The veteran: a blue bear with a wreath of fire about its shoulders. The bear dropped on all fours to spray torrent of flame from its throat, but the little elephant rolled up like a tire and ripped across the ground in a dark blur, cutting through the fire like it was water from a garden hose.

      "Hey! Hey, girl! Can I get another shuck?" A man approached my makeshift bar beneath the stairs.

      "Hundred P," I called over the noise.

      The crowd erupted, as if cheering for my incredible pouring skills. The man handed me a wad of money and took his ceramic of berry wine, "Damned good fight, girl,"

      Another tip, another battle, another dozen cups of shuck. The cycle continued for a full three hours before the audience wore their selves out and one pokémon was left standing. Tonight's victor was a tall, middle-aged man with sparse hair. His weapon of choice: a pikachu, a yellow rabbit-like creature that could generate electric currents from its cheeks. The little guy won the night by zipping around the pit until its opponents tired out trying to keep up. In the blink of an eye time, the pikachu charged its body with electricity and threw itself to fry one opponent after another. The crowd started clearing out as soon as the fight ended, exchanging goodbyes, lost bets and endearing insults. Some went upstairs, but most took the secret exit round back, which opened to an unassuming shed in the woods behind town. A few people stayed behind, including the winner and his pikachu. He carried his tiny companion in his arms.

      "Got anymore shuck?" he asked.

     "A little," I said, poured him a small, but heavy cup. I didn't understand why one would want to drink half-digested berry juice from a mollusk's stomach in the first place, but I didn't understand most things adults did. With slightly corrosive properties and an astonishing alcohol percentage, shuck was basically poison, illegal to sell, but legality never stopped us from anything.

      The pikachu hopped up on the table to peer at the shuck jug. I hid it under the table, scratched the creature behind its pointy ear.

      "Pika," it squeaked happily.

      "He likes you," said the pikachu's trainer, "are you a trainer?"

      "If only," I muttered, "Are you?"

      "Been training since I was eleven," the man took out his wallet to flash his official Pokémon League Trainer's License, the slip of plastic that allowed one to battle pokémon legally.

      "So, if you're a certified trainer, what are you doing down here?"

      "You kidding? This is where the money is. You gotta jump through a lot of hoops if you wanna make it big in legal combat. What about you? What're you doing down here?"

      I tapped the shuck jug with my foot, "This is where the money is,"

      The man smiled, "A regular Team Rocket you are,"

      As if summoned, Ms. Oda came sauntering down the stairs. Her dog's nails rapped on the iron steps. Way up north, there are ghostly pokémon that that look like women and freeze men alive just by looking at them. They must be related to Ms. Oda. A lithe, good-looking woman that never smiled for more than a heartbeat, she gave off an icy wind wherever she went. She was the overseer of our operation, sent to collect admission fees, dole out prize money, to recruit talented trainers into her organization, and to make sure the authorities kept their noses out of our business.

      "Congratulations," she said, shook the winner's hand, handed him a brick of cash.

      He examined the money and stopped himself from commenting on the weight.

      "I know it's more than the five hundred thousand advertised," said Ms. Oda, "Think of it as an invitation. There's even more where that came from. Let's talk - Baskerville, go watch the door."

      Ms. Oda's short black dog scurried up the stairs. It was a creepy thing, basically a baby hellhound, with steely ribs and a helmet sprouting from obsidian-sleek fur. No doubt it'd been loosed on countless poor bastards that didn't pay up on time. I followed it up through the trap door.

      It was always jarring, climbing up from an illegal battle pit into a lackluster small town souvenir shop. The hellhound sat by the door, watching the early morning darkness with a keen eye. My husky-voiced mamoswine of a boss checked at a clipboard at the front counter, "There you are, Śiva," she said, "Good haul tonight?"

      "The biggest so far,"

      "It better have been. We won't be seeing much more of Team Rocket,"

      "What do you mean? I thought you liked your kneecaps," I asked, "Oh, and can you count this?"

      "Har, har," she shuffled and cut the stack like wrinkled cards, handed me an unimpressive pile of bills, "There you go. The rest is for our babysitter downstairs. And I mean that I'm breaking off our deal with Team Rocket. It's not safe anymore. The battle club in Blackthorn City got busted the other day and I'm not looking to get shut down. I already talked it over with Oda. One more fight night next month and our business is concluded. I don't want to put you in the line of fire. You won't be working that night."

      "But-" I protested. I could almost feel the money slipping through my fingers.

      "Plus, they ask for more every month. I can't keep a shop open with that burden. Well, speak of a dusclops. I think now's a good time to go, Śiva. I'll see you tomorrow. Send my regards to your mama and that dinosaur of yours,"

      Ms. Oda came slinking up the stairs and I figured now was as good a time to bow out as any, "I'll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Alpine. Goodnight, Ms. Oda,"

      If someone says "Johto," the first things you probably think about are autumn trees and yellow windows in mild night air. Johto nights are the quietest in the nation. They're a time to shut off your brain and listen. All the trees and vacant lots bustle with the music of kricketots, the scratching of spinaraks weaving their webs, the hoothoots and noctowls cooing secret codes across the September chill. A huge noctowl passed overhead with barely a sound, eyeing me like I was a rodent for the snatching. A chill rattled down my spine and it wasn't the night air. I'd been feeling like owl food for the past few months, a small creature caught in the claws of something large and dangerous. It wasn't like I didn't know what I was getting into when I applied to work at the shop. Like the movies say about Team Rocket, once you're in, there's no getting out.

  

**(-1-)**

**  
**

      "I really wish you'd find another place to work," Mom complained, "It's dangerous there. You know what happens to kids who go to jail,"

      "Do you know the odds of getting picked for the Arena?" I replied, face in the fridge, "Plus, now I can pay for Laksmi's treatment."

      I dug around the fridge until I found a nearly empty medicine bottle and a tub of leftovers.

      "Eevee," Mom whispered.

      "Yeah?" I said, hitting a randomly selected number on the microwave.

     "I think we need to consider that Laksmi might not get better,"

     I immediately welled up, "Mom, no,"

     "It might be best for her to rest. She's been through so much,"

     "We can't give up on her,"

      "Ee-"

     "Don't call me that when you're being serious. You know I hate it!" and so I stormed off to bed without my supper.

      Laksmi lifted her head like a big green periscope. She lay curled up on my bed, her massive weight straining the metal frames to creaking. "Niu," she yelped in that foghorn falsetto unique to dinosaurs. In its prime, a meganium sports a ruff of flower petals at the base of its neck, as big and strong as shields. In the spring, the petals would give off a sweet scent and attract pollinating bugs. Now, Laksmi's pedals were dry, scentless, and her saurian bulk had wilted into loose skin. The cold months were always hard on plant-based pokémon, but this was something else.

      "Open up, girl," I said, loading a dropper with medicine.

      "Niuu," she protested.

      "Please, I know it tastes bad, but it'll help,"

      She reluctantly slackened her big jaw, revealing even rows of tiny teeth. I dripped the last few drops onto her tongue and the medicine dispersed. She shook her head like a rogue fire hose, but listened to my shushing and settled down with a snort.

      I hugged her tight, "There, it's okay, I'll take care of you,"

      Her neck draped over my shoulder, "Niu," she cooed, "Niuuu,"

      "Get some sleep. We have to see the doctor in the morning,"

      She gave an unhappy snort. I crawled into the sliver of extra space in the bed and turned on my GameNav to line up candy-colored pokémon heads for high scores, but my mind was somewhere else. When Mrs. Alpine shut down the club, it would be lights out. I could never rack up enough cash without Team Rocket money. I think Laksmi knew I was worried about something because she let me hug her big neck until my eyes got heavy. Without knowing it, I fell into a nightmare about a screeching noctowl of enormous size, barreling down on me faster than I could think.

**(-2-)**

 

     A flying shark torpedoed just past my left ear when I stepped into the Pokémon Center. You can't walk into one and not have something to talk about the by the time you left. Pokémon Centers don't look big on the outside, just two-storey red roofed buildings with lots of glass. Inside, they function like little towns, where man and beast live together in chaotic harmony. Though mostly used as veterinary offices, they quadruple as kennels, conference halls, and rest stops for traveling pokémon trainers. The building echoed with shoe squeaks and the cries of exotic creatures. If you ever wanted to come face to face with anything from household pets to dragons, fairies, ghosts, jungle beasts and great birds, just hang out at a Pokémon Center. A mammoth tromped by the waiting area while a pair of blue rabbits played water tag across the waiting room floor. If I wasn't here on a monthly basis, the menagerie would have been amazing. I sunk into a couch in the waiting room, turning Laksmi's poké ball in my hand.

      I never got used to poké balls. I know all about matter-to-data conversion and stuff like that, but I can't wrap my head around it, storing a five-foot, two hundred pound dinosaur in a capsule the size of a baseball? There was a point where stuff stopped being science and started being magic. I watched the nurses scurry back and forth, pink, egg-shaped pokémon waddling behind.

      "This just in," said a voice from the far end of the room. A janitor rushed to turn up the wall-mounted TV. Every eye turned to the screen. "We have an exclusive scoop on this year's Arena. Recent leaks report that the first two contestants have been chosen." A pair of photos popped up onscreen, while the anchors dished on their rap sheets. One was a really fit girl only a year older than me, arrested for punching a lucario, like actually punching a pokémon right in its pokéface. The other kid didn't look like a criminal at all, a soft fat boy, eyes all pink and puffy in his mugshot, like he'd just been crying. I missed what his crime was, but whatever he'd did, it couldn't have been that bad.

      The room set to muttering while the screen played violent highlights from last year's contest. That was my cue to open up out my GameNav so I would have something else to look at. I wasn't totally against the Arena, it was entertaining for what it was, but I could never watch it without covering my eyes for half of it. Those were real kids and pokémon killing one another in there, not actors, not video game renderings, real people with no control over what was happening to them. Pokémon fought each other in the wild all day every day, but people? Kids?

      "I'd put my money on her," said a boy, leaning in to look at my screen.

      "Yeah, me too," I replied, half-heartedly.

      "You into battling?" he asked. A poké ball appeared in his hand, a challenge.

      "I don't have a license,"

      The boy lost interest in me and focused on the TV. The TV went back to its previous programming, a nature show where some crazy ranger went around the forests Fiore tackling the biggest, toothiest pokémon he could find.

      "Why is it fine to make pokémon battle for the cameras," I blurted, "but it's wrong when the TV companies aren't making money off it?"

      He looked at me like I was stupid, "They make have to make sure no one's using pokémon for the wrong reasons,"

      "But people die in the Arena. How is that a right reason?"

      "Who cares? They're criminals,"

      Maybe it was because I'm a criminal, but that hurt like he'd called me something awful and personal.

      "Ms. Cāndī," a nurse appeared in front of me like a ghost, "The doctor will see you now."

      There was no good news. All he could do to slow the disease was to write a yet another prescription. He was just doing his job, but I had to suppress a deep desire to punch him. We could heal mortal wounds with a spray of Hyper Potion, we could shorten hospital stays to five minutes on a healing table, even bring extinct species back to life with little more than a laptop and a stray bone, but mortality always found a way. There was and will always be disease. I didn't even stop by the pharmacy. Insurance wouldn't cover Laksmi anymore and it would be 100,000 P for a bottle of liquid that I couldn't pronounce the name of. I went home to find out how much a bike went for these days.

**(-3-)**

**  
**

      With the exception of monthly fight nights, Just a Souvenir Shop really was just a souvenir shop, where we sold everything from locally made Rage Candy Bars to fake ninja weapons. People rarely bought anything, but that meant lots of free time for we loyal employees.

      "Oh, did you see that?!" Juniper jumped up from his portable TV, biting his fist. An announcer cheered wildly over static, filling the backroom with noise.

      "I don't want to know," I forced myself not to look, instead committing myself to uselessly scraping a sticker gun over a box of Silph Co. health potions.

      "So this guy's got a charizard, right?" Jun explained anyway, "And the other trainer is using a blastoise. You know how fire type pokémon are weak against water types?"

      "Does this story end with someone dying?" I said.

      "Yeah, but it's awesome,"

      "Whatever," I rolled a cart of potions out to stock. When I returned, Jun was still talking.

      "So anyway, the blastoise is blasting his water cannons like ' _Whoosh!'_ and the charizard blocks the water with his wing," he mimed raising a shield, "then he looks around his wing and breathes fire all in the blastoise's face. It was brutal." He adjusted the bunny ears on the tiny TV until the image cleared up enough to tell what was going on. An orange dragon with one tattered wing had his jaws clamped about its opponent's neck. The huge blue turtle helplessly sprayed water out of the cannons sticking out of his shell, all in graphic slow motion. The camera cut to two kids about my age, a girl choking the life from a much younger boy.

      "This is gross," I said. There was a reason I avoided reality TV. They'd do anything to get you to watch.

      "Don't worry, they censor the highlights. Plus, the girl doesn't actually kill the guy, his heart stops when his blastoise dies. That's how it works in the Arena. They inject you with tiny machines, so you die if your pokémon dies and visa versa. You know how it works."

      "Whatever," pokémon dying was the last thing I wanted to hear about right now.

      A pair of commentators appeared on the screen to discuss what they'd just seen, "Really good show of tactics by Miranda and her charizard, but a nasty end for Colin and that poor blastoise. If you remember from last year, Miranda and Colin were allies until the going got tough and Miranda fried their other teammates in their sleep, which Colin, who had barely escaped, was not a big fan of. You guys at home voted for Miranda as your favorite villain last year and from her record-breaking kill streak, it's easy to see why."

      "Look, Josh, I think we all feel for these kids," replied the other commentator, "The Arena doesn't compromise. You get picked, you have to fight. You could always be a bad choice away from a nasty end."

      "Now that's a lesson for the young'uns. Be on your best behavior, kids. We've got thirty-four more contestants to pick."

      The camera angle changed, one of the commentators turned to look at the audience, "That's right, so stay tuned to the Silph Network, where we keep you updated on the action around the clock."

      The program cut to commercials and I lost interest. "Juniper, use price tag attack," I threw Jun the sticker gun and went out on my break.

      Our town was infamous for its privacy and looked the part. Autumn trees veiled wood facades and shop windows, dropping leaves like flame-colored moths dying in the daylight. Under the shade, people went from point A to point B with no pit stops, each of them keeping their business to their selves. We weren't paranoid, we just prided in our ability to mind our own beeswax. In Mahogany Town, you're trained in privacy from childhood. Kids in other towns grow up playing tag or baseball. Mahogany kids play guessing games, hiding games, and Spot the Ninja.

      If you've never played Spot the Ninja before, I highly recommend it. Basically, when you're at a busy place like a street or a school hallway, you pick a person in the crowd that could be a hidden assassin. Next, you choose their victim in the same crowd and figure out a way that your ninja could kill their target as quickly as possible without getting caught. It's a good way to keep your mind off things. If someone notices you looking at them, you lose.

      It was lunch hour, so there were plenty of players to work with. I glanced up my ninja and target, then down at my GameNav to avoid eye contact. The plan was coming together smoothly until someone-something looked me right in the eye. A pair of rubies glittered from a shady tree across the street. I froze. It was watching me, a huge noctowl, perched stock-still. It wasn't even noon.

      "Pick the guy in the hat!"

      My heart leaped up my esophagus. Jun stood over me, holding a paper coffee cup and a pack of cigarettes.

      "You made me lose," I complained and snatched the coffee from him.

      "You lost as soon as you started. Look, you can't kill anyone right now. That lady's yanma will see you right away,"

      He pointed to a local woman walking a three-foot-long dragonfly. I scanned every tree by the street. There wasn't a noctowl in any of them.

      "I guess,"

      "You'd make a terrible murderer, Śiv'," he thumped a cigarette loose of the pack and lit up.

      "Whatever," I said, committing myself to thumbing away at my GameNav, "You're supposed to be working."

      "Smoke break - And coffee break, hand it over," he took back his coffee, winced as he swallowed too much at once, then washed it down with a long pull of smoke. He tipped the smokes in my direction, "Want one?"

      "It's bad for you,"

      "Everything's bad for you. We just have to pick the bad things we like most."

      "Are they even bad things if that's the case?" I said.

      He pondered for a second, "You make my head hurt, woman."

      As big a dork as he was, Jun looked cool when he smoked. He was at the Hotness Crossroads, that weird place where you can't tell if a boy was cute or not. Tall and stringy, he didn't look like much, especially with his natural green hair bunched up into spikes at the front. Don't get me wrong. I wasn't into him. He wasn't my type. Plus, he was seventeen, a whole two years older than me.

      Jun changed the subject, "How was the pit last night?"

      "Not so loud,"

      "Sorry. Who won?"

      "Some old guy with a pikachu," I murmured.

      "Really? Like, pika pika? How much did he win?"

      "Five hundred thousand, with a bonus bribe,"

      "Helix," Jun sighed, "What I could do with all that money."

      "Yeah. It's a lot," I sighed back. There was a pause, then a light bulb snapped on in my head, "You ever thought of competing?"

      "Hell to the no," he laughed, "I'll stick to trading cards, thank you,"

      I giggled, despite my disappointment, "You're so cool,"

      "Yeah, screw you too, now give me that. I'll show you what a high score looks like,"

      You need a trainer's license to catch, train, and battle pokémon, but you don't need anything more than a letter to the local shelter to adopt one. Bobbles was one such pokémon. Mrs. Alpine told me that she found him in the backroom after opening the shop one morning, that the big guy must have mistaken the back door of the shop for a cave. He was the store-pet-slash-sometimes-employee ever since. He held a crate in his flipper-like arms while Jun and I stocked the candy aisle. The only adequate way to describe Bobbles was as a tall blue blob with flappy arms and a squinty face. If you caught him off guard, you could get a glimpse of his tail, a flat black stub with staring eyes. No, really. Wobbuffet tails have gaping eyes that flit around nervously, like they're always afraid of something. In primary school, for whatever reason, they say to never, ever touch a wobbuffet's tail. Creepy appendages or no, Bobbles had never harmed anyone, we loved Bobbles. He wasn't a ton of help around the shop, so his job mainly consisted of standing around and going, "Wabbawabba!"

      "You could, you know," I started, out of the blue.

      Jun turned away from his tiny TV, now stationed on the shelf next to him, "I could what?"

      "Wabbawabba!" went Bobbles.

      "Enter the contest next month," I said.

      "I'm not crazy, thank you. Why are you so keen on this?" he said, then remembered, "Oh, right. Sorry. Your meganuim."

      "So, will you do it?"

      Jun turned up his TV to tune me out, "Just bet on something,"

      "I can't bet if I'm broke,"

      "I know where this is going and you know I can't get behind you doing it yourself,"

      My face went warm, "How did you know I was thinking that?"

      "Because I hang out with you on a daily basis. Don't do it, Śiv'. You could get fired, and then what?"

      "Alright," I said, "I won't,"

**(-4-)**

   

      October passed at a snail's pace. I spent nights thinking, my days watching Laksmi get sicker and most evenings were spent alone with Bobbles in the pit, teaching him to throw a punch, something I barely knew how to do myself. I had to at try, so if Laksmi finally went, I'd at least have that, I'd have done something about it. Her skin was browning slightly, and her leaves had gone pale around the center. They looked dry and sun-bleached. I'd taken the night off of work on the excuse that I had caught something from Laksmi. It was nonsense, but my two co-workers bought it.

      "Do I look battle-ready?" I asked, turning to show off my thrift store leather jacket and jeans. Laksmi snorted amusedly.

      "You're an asshole,"

      She croaked a laugh.

      I thought I looked tough for my height. The black leather complimented my dark skin tone and I looked like a zigzagoon in all the eyeliner I smeared on my face. A pair of fingerless gloves completed the look. I read that it was important to look formidable to help with morale.

      I hugged Laksmi, "Wish me luck, girl."

      "Niuuu," she said, and pressed her nose against my forehead.

      I felt her cheek, "I love you too. I'll save you, I promise."

      "Where are you off to?" said Mom, the moment I left my room.

      "Going out. Jun is off tonight too," I lied.

      "I thought tonight was one of those- those meetings."

      "I'm not working there tonight,"

      Mom twisted her lip, "Well, just in case, you should ask the guardians,"

      "Fine," I groaned, but didn't fight it.

      Like most people in Johto, Mom was super into religion. We thanked the Forest Guardian before dinner, saluted the Ho-Oh bird in the morning, and asked the Great Beasts for protection whenever we were going on a journey or felt stressed. I knelt before the shrine by the front door, a cubby decorated by a small brass pagoda, topped by three four-legged creatures, one cut from a red fire stone, in the center, a blue water stone, and the last was yellow thunder stone. My brother once dared me to lick the thunder idol, which got me a numb tongue for a whole day and a scolding from Mom. I never disrespected the Guardians again, less because of the electrical shock and more because of Mom's religious meltdown. I didn't believe in spirits and stuff, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't give me a little comfort, "Hear me, guardians of smoke and mist and cloud. My name is Śiva of the Cāndī clan. I am to leave my dwelling and tread open ground. Protect my honor from scorn, protect my soul from impurity, protect my body from harm. I beseech only this," I half expected an answer when I lit a stick of incense and placed it at the foot of the tower. The way the stones glowed, you could believe they were alive. I pocketed the water stone idol and went out the door.

**(-5-)**

**  
**

      No one was in the shop but Ms. Oda's dog, but the floor rumbled with muffled voices. I slipped into Mrs. Alpine's office to snag Bobbles's poké ball, then headed downstairs. As expected, barely anyone showed up. Only twelve people signed up for fight night, including myself. The crowd of spectators was thinner than usual, too. Jun glared at me from the shuck table. His gaze was like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

      I found Ms. Oda, jotted my name into the lowest slot on her clip board, all without saying anything to her. She raised hew perfect, straight brows at me, "Really?"

       Mrs. Alpine came barreling through the sparse crowd, "Whoa, whoa, what're you doing?"

      I looked away over my shoulder. I was a kid caught stealing a cookie before dinner.

      "Śiva," she urged with a mother's softness, "You're getting wrapped up in something-"

      "It's alright, Hilde," said Ms. Oda, "She is eligible to enter,"

      "You-" Mrs. Alpine growled, a finger to Ms. Oda's chin. The mobster wasn't fazed in the slightest. Mrs. Alpine stomped off upstairs.

      "Good luck," Oda purred as she slinked off.

      I figured it was best to go ahead and deal with Jun. I sat on the shuck table to brace for a wave of guilt. He looked around, took a gulp of shuck, "You lied,"

      "I lied," I said, "But I had to. This is my only chance,"

      "I'd say something harsh, but you know I suck at staying mad at you,"

      "You're not mad?"

      "Sorta mad,"

      The lights dimmed, a spotlight shone on Ms. Oda, leaning on the ring. As much as I hated her, it was easy to see why people ate out of her hand. With her cold eyes and bright lips, she looked like a queen among commoners, "You sick bastards actually showed up," a short round of cheers and laughter followed and stopped as soon as she spoke again, "How about we just shut up and get this show going?" whoops and hollers, "First up, Viole and Frei. Viole and Frei, take your places at the white lines and arm your poké balls,"

      A man and a woman, both around their 20's, stepped up to the white lines on either side of the ring. At the sound of the gong, the contestants threw their poké balls down the pit. The balls snapped open and Pokémon leapt into action. A big purple bat with four wings faced off against bug with a man's posture, made entirely of red metal. The bug struck the air with its huge, crab-pincer hands, darting all around the ring with the help of its glassy wings. The bat danced around its head in circles and ovals, crosses, and figure eights, while their trainers issued commands like generals both losing a battle. My stomach tightened into a knot. I knew the snap was coming any moment, the screech and a crack of bone.

      Jun rested his hand on my shoulder, "You don't have to do this,"

      "I have to," I lied, "I have to try," but as I said it, I cradled my face in my hands, trying not to hyperventilate. Bobbles could actually die here. I didn't know how to battle. Who was I kidding?

      The death blow echoed throughout the whole room, a horrible crack, like a twig. The bat was called back into its poké ball just as it began to scream, but it was clear that there was no saving it now. The crowd gasped, then made some noise for the victor. Shuck flowed and sloshed.

      "Give me some," I said. Jun filled a cup for me and I knocked it back. It tasted like mixed berries and sulfuric acid. The effect was almost immediate, a melting sensation, slow submersion.

      "Next up, Śiva and Cyan, stand at the white lines and arm your poké balls."

      I swam to the painted line on the close end of the ring, the crowd noise dulled by my pulse and shuck. Like one of those naked dreams, I was exposed, unable to protect myself, a thousand quick judgements flying at me like oncoming stones. A poké ball appeared in my hand and I hit the button to prime it for throwing. My opponent smirked at me form the other end of the ring, a girl I've never met before, a leggy blonde with a nose ring and inked arms. The gong seemed to echo for a small eternity, but the ball stuck to my palm.

      "Throw it!" someone cried. Other voices joined in, "Throw the ball! The hell's she doing? Fight! Fight!"

      Miss Oda's voice sparkled over the rest, "The contestant must throw her ball within the next fifteen seconds or be disqualified,"

      "Thow it! Throw it! Fight!"

      I held onto the idol in my pocket, tracing the cold lines of waxy rock, squeezed my eyes shut to spike the ball into the pit. The ball snapped open like a mouth, releasing a white cloud of energy that coalesced into Bobbles. The ball boomeranged back into my hand. My bones rattled in the crowd's laughter. Never have I wanted to throw up harder than I did in that moment. Every muscle in my body went weak, limp, like a kid that wet herself on the playground. My eyes burned. Bobbles smiled obliviously and saluted the crowd. Even Ms. Oda chuckled from her place beside the pit. She accepted a block of money from one of her cronies, whispered something, and vanished into the crowd. I wish I'd taken a second to figure out what that meant, but now I was responsible for Bobbles's life and Laksmi's.

     My foe's pokémon punched the air and shuffled his feet readily. I'd seen hitmonchans on TV. They looked like short, thin people with tan skin and a crown-shaped crests on their heads. They were born for boxing and trainers outfitted them for the occasion with a toga and gloves.

     The hitmonchan's trainer pointed and cried out, "Varazdat, mach punch!"

      "Bobbles-!" I began, but the words caught in my throat. Bobbles took a boxing glove square between the eyes and wiggled like a doorstop. His face slapped into Varazdat's chest, sending the boxer staggering back. Wobbuffets lived and died standing. It was a scientific impossibility to knock one over, for better or for worse - in this case, worse, or so I thought. Varazdat, ignoring the blow, closed for another punch. The fist came in around the side, sending Bobbles in wild circles. There was a loud smack. Varazdat's arm spun back as if it had punched a moving car. The boxer retreated slightly, bewildered.

      "Bobbles, sit tight, I'll think of something," I cried down. His black tail looked up at me, then shifted its eyes side-to-side, awaiting the next blow.

      My opponent shouted, "Varazdat, bullet punch!"

      There was a sound like a gunshot as Varazdat seemed to teleport across the pit, fist first. Bobbles's body snapped back and forward in an arcing blur. The hitmonchan went rolling backwards until he hit the wall.

      "You're doing it!" I shouted, "We can do it, Bobbles!"

      He turned around to salute me, leaving his tail exposed.

      "Turn around, turn-" I cried. A round-ended javelin, Varazdat's fist launched up from the ground and back down into Bobbles's tail.

      I gasped. You never, ever touch a wobbuffet's tail. Never. Bobbles hunched over, growling, hissing, whimpering, like a mother with a wounded baby, "Wwwwwwwwa, waaaab, wabba, wabbaaaaa,"

      My opponent cracked her neck and knuckles, "Finish him, Varazdat! Focus punch!"

      Varazdat stood back, closed its eyes and tensed. You could almost see the energy building, like a boulder pushed down a cliff.

      "Bobbles, come back!" I held up his poké ball, "Come back! Please!"

      He didn't listen, just stood there and seethed. The crowd muttered, mourning the poor, brave wobbuffet and cursing the stupid little girl who thought battling was just a game.

      "Bobbles, it's okay! Come back!"

      A tan streak shot across the pit, but the punch never came. Varazdat tugged at his arm, caught in a pair of blue flippers. He pulled away, desperately throwing punches with his free hand, but Bobbles didn't notice them. His blue bulk lowered back, a rubbery catapult. Varazdat cried out, beat at his captor's eyes, mouth, his arms.

     "What are you doing, Varazdat?" said the trainer, "Get out of there. Mach punch! Mach punch!"

      Varazdat was my enemy, but he was going to die if I didn't do something. "Bobbles, don't! Wait, stop the fight," I yelled, but my voice was lost in the uproar.

      Bobbles was halfway to the floor when he let go of Varazdat's arm but there was no time to escape. The boxer stared open-mouthed as Bobbles's face crashed into him with locomotive force. Varazdat flew off his feet and smashed against the wall. He slid into a heap onto the floor contorted like crushed bug. Bobbles smiled and saluted, "Wabba,"

      The noise was like a tidal wave. People shook my shoulders, rattled the ring, pushed and shoved each other. Shuck spilled all over the floor. I wordlessly called Bobbles back into his poké ball. Mrs. Alpine put a hand to my back and guided me through the crowd, up the stairs, and out of the shop.

      "You had no right to take Bobbles," she said, "He could have gotten seriously hurt,"

      Between the October air on my sweat-dappled skin and the chill down my spine, it could have been January. "I'm sorry," I murmured.

      "You're not going back down there."

      "But I have to fight the next round," I argued, but my heart wasn't in it. I was in the wrong here.

      "Jun said he'd give you tonight's tips for Laksmi. I should fire you," she sighed, "But your heart's in the right place."

      The door jingled and out came Ms. Oda. She glanced to her sides, a poké ball in one hand.

      "What?" said Mrs. Alpine, coldly.

      Ms. Oda threw her poké ball at the ground and out came a huge blue bat, its mouth hanging down to its legs. She held onto the base of its wings, "Our business is concluded" she said, then blasted off. The noctowl shot into the air after her in a flurry of leaves.

      "She knew we'd be loose ends. It's a setup," muttered Mrs. Alpine, disbelieving, "Śiva, get out of here. Go anywhere but home. I'll get Jun."

      "What's going on?" I said. I rotated the idol in my pocket, hoping in the back of my mind that the great blue guardian would appear to save me from what was coming.

      "You know. Go. Now," she growled before vanishing through the door.

      I power walked like the wind down the sidewalk towards the bike rack, until I remembered that I sold it to a shop for one thousand two hundred P. Instead, I just kept walking, trying to look innocent, despite my wide eyes and shaking hands. Jun could catch up. He'd be fine, we could plead innocent if something happened. We could claim that Team Rocket forced us to do it. Jun would catch up. Things could sort their selves out. I just had to walk. Dammit, walk!

      "Śiva!" Jun called out.

      Jun came jogging my say, a relieved half-smile on his face. I let him catch up.

      I should not have stopped for him.

**\- Pokémon Arena -**

_  
_ ****


	2. Someone's P.C.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Academy, thirty-six condemned trainers are forced to train for Pokémon Arena: a reality TV trial by combat. One of those contestants is Castor, a rough-and-tumble kid with a unique set of skills and a murky past. Will his advantage make him a target?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. With Chapter Two, I introduce the shifting POV system, a form of narrative familiar to readers of popular fantasy. From this point on, the reader will jump around through a series of first-person narrators. If you really want, you can even skip the chapters of trainers you don't sympathize with. If you only like one character you can follow just one narrator and still get a coherent story. In all, there will be four POVs, but being a main character does not guarantee survival.
> 
> Because this fanfic has been so divisive, I feel that a Don't Like Don't Read warning is in order. 'Arena is the Pokémon universe as seen through older characters. As such, it, features notable violence and language. If this premise disturbs or offends you, you're not going to like this story.

Castor

 

     You know those pink, egg-shaped pokémon you see waddling after nurses? Those are called blisseys. Their eggs are highly nutritious, with both healing and psychedelic properties, a wonder drug that blisseys are eager to share with anyone and anything they meet. The stupid things are so altruistic that they’ll give their own eggs to a person or pokémon that they sense is sad or in trouble. They’ll kill their own young for the pleasure of others. Science is always telling us that life only exists to perpetuate itself, but maybe the plan changed somewhere down the line.

 

(-1-)

 

   Pick up your sword. Don’t disappoint me. Someone stabbed me in the heart and I woke with a gasp. My chest was fine, no sword wound, but there was an adhesive bandage slapped over my breastbone, which pulsed with a faint ache. Someone had dressed me in an undershirt and boxer-briefs while I was tripping. Worse still, my mouth tasted like egg, post-breakfast morning breath. Murmurs and shoe-squeaks scuttled around my dorm. Dorm? I turned on my side to meet a pair of big, watery eyes. I shot up and gasped like a small girl.

     “Poli!” chirped the creature, a wet, round tadpole, about as high as my knee and walking on two feet. Its blue skin had the consistency of a boiled egg, as expected from a frog, but the most striking feature was its gut. The creature’s stomach was a perfect white circle, colored by a hypnotizing spiral, slowly spinning. The lines were so perfect that could’ve been painted on. Spinning, spinning, hypnotizing- “Poliwag!”

     I stumbled out of my sheets like they were on fire.

     “He’s awake. Don’t worry, Ginger, we all got up with a start. You still dreaming on that blissey egg or are you here with us?” the speaker sat in a bed across from me, but his voice echoed like he was miles off. He was my age, thin, with narrow eyes and black hair, “Some dream you must’ve been having. Those blissey eggs do a number on you. Sent me to space, but I probably ate too much. Hi, I’m Jay.”

     “When did I,” I began, reoriented myself, “When did I eat a blissey egg?”

     He answered with something about a mandatory inspection. That’s right. They inspected me. The images drifted back like bad childhood memories – siren lights, megaphones, then the small, pointed teeth of that police dog. I ran my hand over my calves and neck, no bite marks. They fixed me up, gave me a blissey egg to seal up my wounds. Why would they do that? This room certainly isn’t a jail cell. It was a great setup, a large chamber like a penthouse suite, a wall-to-wall window overlooking the western sea from some incredible height. About nine beds lined the walls on either side, roomy, classy, but severe.

     “Poliwag,” said the tadpole to Jay.

     “He’s just disoriented, give him a moment.”

     It wasn’t the only pokémon in the room. By the window, a boy played with a creature like a red eye, pivoting on a metal stalk, and several beds down, another boy hugged what looked like a small white child, its whole body a flowing silk robe, both kid and creature were crying. Pokémon? Cushy beds? Am I awaiting trial? I thought, slowly, like time froze, But they caught me. I got arrested and shipped off- shipped off to where?

     There must have been about eighteen of us in all, a good two thirds of ‘em I could take in a fight easy if push came to shove, which it always did with me. The boys not brooding, crying or attending to their Pokémon sat around talking, checking the walls and window and consoling each other. From the looks of it, I was the last to wake up. An air of fatigue misted the room over. Most of the high drama had petered out.

     My feet touched cold marble, “Where am I?”

     “You might want to get dressed,” said Jay, “More importantly, you might want to sit down for this. Actually, just sit down. Okay, so, you have to recognize this room, right? The uniforms?” he waited for an answer, then registered my look of bafflement, “Don’t you watch TV?”

     “I don’t watch much TV, no.” A group of boys sat muttering on a couple beds nearby, eavesdropping on our conversation and I considered whether or not I’d have to break one of their fingers to stop them from being a problem later. I hadn’t picked up on the uniforms. Every one of them wore a gray suit lined with violet, high-end stuff, some with and some without vests and jackets, “I don’t get it. Just tell me.”

   Jay’s face screwed up, the universal bad news face, then reached into my bedside table, “Look, just turn on your HoloDex.” He handed me a flat plastic device, like a kid’s toy smartphone with a tiny glass pupil where the screen should be. One message pending.

     I pressed the Receive button and out came the flickering, phantom image of a woman with cat-eye glasses, somewhere in her forties. The world knew her as Malva, a famous newswoman, “Ding dong, trainer! This is a prerecorded holo cast. You are here because you have committed a crime punishable by National law and qualify for trial by combat. As such, it is my special privilege to inform you that you have been selected to compete in Pokémon Arena, the nation’s number one reality competition!” the HoloDex fell out of my hand to clatter on the floor. Malva’s voice rattled on at my feet, “The rules of the contest are simple. You will notice that you’ve been given a messenger bag. Inside the left side pocket is a poké ball. Retrieve the ball and press Receive when you are ready for further orientation.”

     Something punched the inside of my chest. The room went to liquid again. Jay kept talking, it just sounded like mush to me. I got up, stumbled, and caught myself on his shoulders, “The Academy. This is the Academy.”

     “I’m sorry, man. Really, I think you should sit down, you don’t look so good,”

     “They’re going to kill us,”

     “Not if you’re lucky,”

     “I won’t do it. I won’t,” I fell back onto my bed and sunk my face into my hands to scream. The whole room stared. I could feel it.

     Jay put a hand on my shoulder, “Hey, are you-“

     “Shut up, just please, just for a second,”

     The other boys returned to their various tasks and emotional breakdowns. Stop crying. You’ll have to do this a lot if you want to make it. The voice in my head wasn’t my own. I sat up, wiped away the dewdrop tears on my lashes.

     “You good?” said Jay. He handed me the aforementioned messenger bag, a fashionable gray thing with poké ball shaped latches.

     “I’m good. Play the message,”

     Malva yammered on, “The pokémon inside will be your partner for the rest of the contest. Our expert evaluators checked your professional, academic, and criminal records to match you with the perfect partner. To ensure that the two of you cooperate, our skilled nurses have taken the liberty to inject both you and your pokémon with Peacemakers.”

     “They what?!” I tore off the bandage. Sure enough, there was a tiny bruise over my heart where the needle went in. Peacemakers were bad news, the worst, thousands of tiny machines, too small to see, all swimming around in your blood stream at once, sending signals to each other like a swarm of bugs.

“Peacemakers are the very height of nanotechnology,” continued Malva with a tone that sounded more like a school announcement than a death sentence, “They will keep track of your vitals, so if your heart stops beating, so will your pokémon’s. If your pokémon’s heart stops beating, so will yours. Simply put, if one of you dies, so will the other, so you’d better get along. Please note that you are allowed to do whatever you please in the Academy, but we recommend using our state-of-the-art facilities to train for your adventures in the Arena. Further instructions will be sent to your HoloDex as needed. Enjoy your stay!”

     “What Pokémon do you think you got?” said Jay.

     I stared at the ball, “I don’t want to know. Not yet.”

     “It’s a little much to take in, I know. If I had a shot at not doing what I did-“ he trailed off, “Too late for that.“

     “You seem to be taking your death sentence well,” I said.

     “I internalize everything,” said Jay, “Plus, if everyone’s crying and panicking, we’ll never get out on our feet. What about you? Too macho to cry?”

     “Anything but,”

     “If you say so. Come on, Polo,” he said, then got up to leave, poliwag in tow.

     “Where are you going?” I said.

     “Anywhere but here. You should get dressed. You can’t leave the dorm if you’re not dressed.”

     “Who’s gonna stop me?”

     “No, I mean the doors won’t open unless you’re in your uniform.”

     That boy with that weird eyestalk pokémon kept glancing at me while I dressed. I smiled at him and he turned away, pink cheeked, his silver hair cutely falling over his eyes. If I felt exposed in boxer shorts and a tank top, I was naked in the uniform. The outfit was damned tight, especially around the butt, probably for the home audience’s viewing pleasure. I couldn’t properly tie the cravat, but no one seemed to notice.

     The boys’ and girls’ dorms opened to a loft over the foyer. A clinically clean facility, the Academy called to mind a Pokémon Center or a high school before school hours. I caught up to Jay on the downstair.

     “You look like an ace trainer already,” he said, “You couldn’t figure out the ascot either, huh?”

   “It’s a cravat,” I said.

     “Whatever. I think I found the cafeteria.”

 

**(-2-)**

 

     True to form, the cafeteria was a big bright room with a steaming buffet, mostly Kalosian food. Lot of green stuff for strength, but also some assorted breads, meats, and sweets to keep up morale. A wobbling fat boy sniffled and filled his face with ice cream in a corner of the room. He had to have been fifteen to sixteen, all pink from crying, like strawberry dough. An actual doughboy. I tried not to look at him. He was getting too much attention already. A small group of other kids tried to eat in silence, but scowled at him in their moments of silence, a boy and two girls. Female uniforms were just about identical to the males’, but with undersized pleated skirts and high socks in place of our butt-enhancing trousers. Her pokémon was out of its ball, a horned purple rabbit, ears pulled back in anxiety as it tried to distract itself from its surroundings by nibbling on a pile of cubic pellets.

 

     “Hey, Ginger, do you know how to work this?” Jay stood at a machine like a blender at the end of the buffet, scratching his head. Pokéblock Blenders are boxy blue machines meant for making pellets to feed your pokémon. I scanned the ingredient buttons, including but not limited to dozens of different berries, leaves, preserved meats, rocks, apricorns, sewer sludge, and scrap metal, something for everyone. I selected a concoction of algae and berries.

     “You sure Polo’ll eat that?” Jay asked.

     The machine whirred and out came a handful of tiny green blocks. I plucked one of the pile. It crunched wetly, like a free sample of compacted trash, “Yeah, it’s pretty good,”

     Jay took the pellets to wrap them in a napkin, “You’re a weird kid, Ginger.”

 

     Polo sat on the floor and gummed at his pokéblocks while Jay and I tried to hold a conversation. Tried. No number of spoonfuls would silence the doughboy’s whimpering, like a baby on an airplane.

     “Do something, he’s freaking me out,” one of the other boys hissed.

     One of the two girls at the table replied, “Should I say something? He makese want to punch someone,”

     “Don’t bother. It looks like those kids have you covered.”

     The purple rabbit stared at the doughboy, snarling, horn lowered. It wasn’t unnoticed. The boy pulled his feet up on his chair, shaking. One of the boys at the table stood up and walked over. Without even a word, he grabbed the doughboy’s bag, “What pokémon did you get?”

     “I- I don’t know,” he said, glancing and down between his bully and the rabbit.

     “Leave him alone, Bruin,” said the girl, “He won’t make it anyway.”

     “No, no, hold on. What’s your name, kid?”

     “Hinto,” said the doughboy, “Please give that back,”

     “Well, Hinto, since you asked nicely, I think I’ll keep it. You’re just gonna die in the Arena anyway,” he said, and crossed the room to join his companions.

     Hinto found a second wind of deep, bestial whines and ran over to grab Bruin’s arm, “You can’t have it, it’s mine!”

   Bruin didn’t hesitate to punch Hinto right in the face, turning him into a crying pink thing moving rapidly out the door, like some infant creature escaping a predator.

     I shot to my feet, “What’s wrong with you? He’s just scared,”

     “It’s eat or be eaten man,” scoffed Bruin.

     “Ginger-“ Jay said, but I was halfway across the room, twenty feet away from my poké ball. Bruin saw I was unarmed and made to shove me away. That was a mistake.

 

     It doesn’t take much effort to break an arm. A simple wrist-twisting motion pulls the opponent into an awkward contorted crouch, their elbow held straight and taught in your armpit. The choice is theirs. If they submit, they go free, if they resist, crunch.

     I picked up Hinto’s ball from the floor when everything went to shit.

     “Napoleon, wait!” cried the girl. Her horned rabbit came to protect his ally, writhing and moaning on the floor.

     “Ginger, move it!” Jay rammed into my bicep, staggering me into a table. He screamed and stumbled. I whirled just after I could figure out what was happening. A stream of water stung Napoleon like a crystal needle. Startled, the rabbit scurried back to its trainer. Bruin scrambled after it, his own poké ball in hand. I made a step to catch him, but poké balls flew and snapped open at my feet, Polo waddled over to defend Jay, who crawled over to a table to await judgment. Blood trailed from the dark stain welling on his his shin. All I could do was back up. To our right, a creature made of knotted blue vines readied its tendrils for snatching, in front, Napoleon scratched at the floor, and to the left, Bruin’s Pokémon, a big mole with a bladelike helmet scraped its claws together.

     It’s a simple fact that a human can’t take a pokémon in a fight, let alone three, and a tadpole can’t stand up to much at all, not without training at least. My own ball was in my bag at my table across the room, so I gripped Hinto’s, ready to throw if necessary. Polo held his ground at Jay’s side, “Wag, Poliwag.”

     “Look sorry about your friend,” Jay hissed over the pain, “We surrender. Let’s call it a day. Ginger, come on, man.”

     He was right. I lowered the ball and pressed the button to shrink it to pocket size.

     The other trainers shared uneasy glances another, each waiting for some sort of signal.

     “I mean, I don’t give a shit about Bruin,” said Napoleon’s trainer.

     “If we don’t check this guy, he’ll keep doing this. He’ll be a problem in the Arena,” said the girl with the vine Pokémon.

     I watched Jay sweat and squirm. His wound already beginning to fester, the flesh beneath his torn clothes swelled to a sickly purple, a venomous purple.

I tucked the ball into my pocket, “He’s right. We’re all stuck in here together. No one benefits from making enemies. We all want to get through this, at least until the Arena, and we can do that together. Bruin learned that the hard way.”

The rabbit girl tightened her lip in thought. She and her comrades all exchanged a look. They didn’t see me press the activation button and underhand Hinto’s ball to the floor. If you’ve ever battled pokémon before, you’re familiar with the concept of the quick draw. To ensure victory, your ball should always be the first to hit the ground, whether than means throwing your ball extra hard or stealthily.

 

Before I could even give an order, Hinto’s pokémon dove into action, a blue blur that smashed into Bruin’s mole, sending it back-first against a table with a crack and a clank.

Jay scurried up the table, “Helix, Ginger, what are you doing?”

Hinto’s pokémon snapped open its wing case to flutter back to my side. “Heracross,” said the creature, an upright-standing beetle made of hard blue armor, a long, pronged horn pluming from its forehead. It banged its fists together, ready for another go. This was my kind of Pokémon. I jumped up onto the table, “Quick, the nidoran!”

The heracross launched itself headfirst, scooped up in its horn Napoleon and catapulted him across the room. Something grabbed my foot and tripped me backwards. My head hit the edge of the table. A blue vine snaked up by leg, while another came down like a whip over my eye.

“Poli!” cried Polo, as he threw his bulk against the tangled Pokémon, the vine pulled me along as it tumbled uncontrollably until it hit a wall. Then, it screamed and vanished into its ball. The vine on my leg wiggled and went lip, trickling green fluids all over the floor. The enemy trainers were out the door the moment the heracross turned to look at them with its chlorophyll-spattered face. It walked over to me to help me up.

“What are you, crazy?” said Jay, “I mean, they don’t let kids die in the Academy, but those ones’ll be back and they’ll bring more friends. Word gets around fast in here. Once Bruin gets back from the medical bay, you’ll be public enemy number one, and what does that make me? How can we sleep tight in the Arena now? We’re assassination-bait.”

“Where is the medical bay?” I said. I understood Jay’s concern, but his worries were misplaced. I didn’t plan on winning any alliances.

Jay sighed, “I think I saw it across the hall,”

 

We found Hinto sitting behind the cafeteria door. His heracross let Jay lean on its horn for support. It wasn’t really sharp unless he was forcing one of it prongs into your body.

“Thank you,” whispered Hinto.

I took Jay on my shoulder, “Hinto, right? This is your partner.”

The Heracross turned to me. Bugs aren’t the most expressive creatures on the planet, but I knew that the heracross was feeling, like a warrior reassigned to a desk job. “Heracross!” it buzzed.

“Um, hello,” said Hinto, rising to his feet, “I’m Hinto. Do you have a name?”

The heracross hopped a couple feet back with a click of its wings. Hinto’s face drooped, “He doesn’t like me.”

I could see why, but I didn’t say anything. He’d have to learn his own way in here. I carried Jay to the medical bay like a conjoined twin that had to share a single pair of legs.

 

 

The Medical Bay had backrooms for operations and such, but it mostly consisted of a Healing Table and a waiting area. Healing Tables are those long, backlit surfaces you see at Pokémon Centers. You just lay on it flat, have a partner press the right button for your injury, and you’re good as new, as long as the injury isn’t too bad. It could heal burns, bruises, mild broken bones, gashes, scrapes, and relevant to Jay, poisoning, but it couldn’t handle serious injuries or fatal diseases. You could even heal pokémon on it. The downside: it hurts. A lot. The radiation seeps into every fiber of your body, down to a molecular level, where it tightens, twists, melts, molds, and refastens your cells until it the sensors decide that everything is in order.

 

**(-3-)**

 

If we weren’t on death row, the Academy would be a decent place to stay. According to the map, there were gyms for training, a rec room, a rooftop garden, a salon (how that was possible without sharp tools I had no idea,) and a floor only known as the Armory. Most importantly, a decent library stood right next to the infirmary, yet another bright, tiled room, like a school library. The selection wasn’t great, mostly limited to biology, psychology, combat manuals and survival guides.

“So, what did you do to get in here?” said Jay. The library didn’t seem to interest him, but it was safe, empty of people until the other trainers could calm down enough to look around.

I skimmed the meager fiction shelves, looking for something distracting, “Nothing,”

“A guy that knows how to fight like you ends up getting arrested,” he said, “Sounds like an interesting story to me.”

“I’m a deserter,” I said, “That’s all.”

“I guess that accounts for those muscles. What are you, seventeen? Aren’t you a little young to be in the army?” Jay stared at me for a few seconds and for a moment there, I was afraid he caught my lie, “Junior Rangers or something, right?”

“You got me,”

“Why’d you desert?”

“I didn’t like killing people,” that part wasn’t a lie.

“Dramatic irony,” said Jay, “No wonder they picked you. The audience loves stuff like that. Dashing Marty Stu like you, I bet you’ll get a lot of screen time – Careful, Polo. Water is super effective against books.”

I grabbed a copy of an old Kalosian novel and fell back on one of the room’s many big recliners, arranged in a circle around a table.

Jay took a seat next to me with a drawing tablet and began to doodle, “Never thought you would like romance novels, toughguy.”

“My mom’s from Kalos, it runs in the family,”

“Sacré bleu, les escargot!” he exclaimed, trailed off, then came back, “Do you think you deserve to be here?” I peeked over the book at him. His mouth had gone as small and stiff as a grain of rice, “I had it good back home. Real good. There are killers and terrorists out there. Why did they pick up good kids like us?” He threw the tablet aside to let Polo hop into his lap, staining his uniform with frog-slime, “Sorry, mood whiplash,”

“It’s alright,” I said. It wasn’t like I could actually read at a time like this.

“I was gonna be a gym leader back in Kanto. I was this close. My local Leader got a job to join the Pokémon League and I was a candidate to inherit the gym. I know I was gonna get the job, straight up, six figure salary, but that wasn’t my bag. I learned everything there, loved that place. I wanted to teach kids, you know? Show them how awesome pokémon could be.”

“Then how did you end up here?”

“I don’t know,”

I closed the book around my thumb, “You don’t know?”

“I mean, I know most of it. I know I got screwed. Someone accused me of hitting my pokémon or some shit, it happened so fast. They barely even tried me for it. Then some gangster scum bought the gym,” Jay massaged his temples, mussed his hair, “They’ve done it before, bought gyms to use as bases. Happened in Viridian City a few years back. Those Rocket people wanted me out of the way. Now I bet they’re making big bucks stealing pokémon from promising trainers, recruiting people into their little club, the bastards.”

“Poli,” Polo whimpered and nuzzled his chin.

I wanted to say something, but I wasn’t any good with words. I settled on, “I’m sorry,”

“It’s alright. I mean, it’s not. But it’s okay if you don’t know what to say,”

I glanced down at his drawing, a scribble that vaguely resembled a turtle, his pokémon back home.

“If I make it,” said Jay, trying and failing to smile, “I’m going to find them. I’m going to wipe every fleck of Rocket scum off the face of Kanto, then I’m going to take my job back.”

“I guess you have a good chance of making it,” I said. It was true. Gym leaders are regional battling masters, meant to certify that aspiring trainers are strong and responsible enough to take a shot at the League. If Jay’s story was true, it meant that he was good. Good enough to be a threat.

“I know one of us will have to go,” he said. He seemed to choke on the words like some kind of horrible confession, “But I hope we don’t meet out there, in the Arena.”

“Me neither,” I said.

He smiled, “I guess we shouldn’t worry about that now. We’ve got four months to get along.”

Not even a day in and Jay was already making mistakes. You have no friends in the Academy, no allies but your pokémon. Everyone had to kill everyone.

 

Jay and Polo followed me back to the dorm. There were less people as kids trickled out of explore their new home. The kid with the eyestalk Pokémon was still there, curled up on his bed, letting his pokémon tumble around in the air around him.

There were more pokémon than before, including a hawk whose feathers exploded with color like a luchador’s costume, a gaseous shadow wafting about the room, analyzing the room with mischievous eyes, and a cone-shaped runt wearing its trainer’s jacket like a hood. Our dorm room had become a menagerie. One kid accidentally pricked his finger on his worm’s horned head and hurried out of the room in a panic.

Jay came back to his bed, unaccompanied by his pokémon, “You seen the bathroom stalls? Huge! Polo’s sucking up some water. Helps a water type grow,” said Jay, slipping out of his uniform.

I stared at the ceiling to avert my eyes, “I haven’t had to go,”

“I have, seven times,” he said, “Nerves, you know.”

“Congratulations,” I took out my poké ball, weighed it in my hand.

“Why are you so scared to know what’s in there?” he asked.

“Malva said that they choose your pokémon based on your personality, the way you think. There are some things about me I don’t want to know.”

“So, what, you’re just going to go into the Arena with your bare hands? Refuse to fight? You know what happens if you refuse?”

“No, what?”

“They make you fight,” he said, “give you a reason. Those TV producers can do anything in the Arena, spread fast-acting pesticides to kill food supplies, increase or decrease the number of wildlife, change the weather, shrink the size of the battlefield with avalanches or flooding, they can even the season. If you’re extra stubborn, they’ll give you some kind of incentive in the outside world. You’re gonna end up fighting, no matter what.”

“How much Arena have you watched?” I asked.

Jay chuckled, “A lot. I’m a top trainer, after all. You learn a lot from watching this show.”

“So, it doesn’t seem wrong to you?”

“What, the Arena? I mean-” he stumbled on his words, “I mean, sometimes, not all the time. Most of the people in here did something really bad. It’s a good show when you’re not in it.” His face gave him away, belief seeped out with every syllable, “So, what about you? What did you think about it before you ended up here?”

“I wasn’t a fan,” I understated. I was one of those people that had to leave the room when my friends talked about the latest episode. The arrogance of our society, the cruelty to those pokémon. The whole thing is like picking wings off an insect. When I ended up in the Academy, though, I couldn’t afford to be angry, it was exhausting. Just putting me here drained me of any rebellious spirit I had. Maybe it was just the leftover effects of that blissey egg. I hoped it was. Submitting without a fight wasn’t my style.

 

Bruin returned to the room good as new, flitting his eyes away from me whenever I caught him looking. Some people get bitter and make excuses when you kick their ass, but Bruin didn’t seem to want anymore trouble. He sat next to the cute guy with the floating metal pokémon and drummed up a conversation. That got a reaction out of me. I sat up, glared, but shook it off.

Jay purred, “Don’t get territorial, Ginger. Remember, we just lost our chances of making friends for a while. Who knows how many people Bruin’s ladyfriends will tell? Or that Hinto kid? We need to keep our heads down. Ah, Polo, go wipe yourself off, you’re getting water everywhere.”

Jay’s inability to speak in one sentence at a time was starting to get on my nerves. I unbuttoned my jacket and threw it over my eyes, we’ll take turns sleeping.

“Why? The producers are always watching. Attacking someone in their sleep is off limits in the Academy.”

“Whatever. Goodnight.”

“It’s just four in the afternoon,”

 

 

I didn’t fall asleep, not completely, not with all the noise. Sure, people are noisy, but they’re nothing compared to a roomful of pokémon squeaking and roaring and droning. Jay babbled on to someone else nearby. When things simmered down, I did manage to doze off a little, or so I thought. I slept a half-sleep, one of those journeys you take into your favorite memories when the crawl of time or the silence is too much.

 

The night sky was so clear in the desert, a perfect navy-black, sprinkled with snowflake stars, more than you’ll ever see in the countryside. I lay against Lews’s bulky stomach and I ran my fingers through Micha’s greasy hair.

“Castor?” said Micha.

“Yeah?”

“What happens when we get to Gateon Port?”

“You know the plan, you came up with it.”

“I mean, I know the plan: find work, keep our heads down, hop on a boat for Sinnoh if they find us, but,”

“But?”

“It freaks me out, starting over. It’s like staring into a big bottomless pit and thinking ‘jump,’”

Lews fluttered his wings in his sleep, kicking up a flurry of sand. Micha and I laughed and spat out mouthfuls of sand. Lews jumped up startled, “Fly,” he buzzed, “Flygon!”

Lews the flygon was of a rare breed of desert-dwelling pokémon, half bug and half dragon, which looks basically how you’d imagine. Green leathery skin, long neck and a meaty tail, with red globes for eyes and wings far too small for his size. When he saw that all was well, he lay down again and curled his tail around us like a mother’s arm.

“How do you know they’re looking for us?” Micha said.

“Because he’ll never be able to sleep at night unless he knows I’m okay.”

“He loves you,”

I bit my lip until I tasted salt and copper, “Go back to sleep, Micha,”

“Not before you,”

“Flygon,” Lews buzzed.

“Flygon to you too,” I said, and we all drifted off on that black sea into the land of dreams.

 

**(-4-)**

When I woke, the dorm was dark and the sky a dull blue, a red crack flaring across the sea. A HoloDex on my bedside table projected 5:35AM. In the barely-light, I made out the shapes of all the sleeping gladiators, some of them hugging their new pokémon friends in their sleep. I tidied my uniform, slipped on my bag, and left the room.

A janitor swept the loft outside the dorm, while his pokémon, a fluffy gray rodent, mopped with its tail. I figured I wasn’t allowed to interact with him, so I just headed upstairs to the garden.

It was achingly beautiful, unseasonably bright, green and blue and red and yellow and violet in the middle of November. Rows of flowers like selections of jewels ringed the inner garden, where a fountain supported a statue of a milotic. The creature’s serpentine body wound into the air as it sprayed an umbrella of water from a narrow mouth. Small trees made a screen around the flowerbeds, separating the outer and inner walkways. I strolled the circular path of the inner gaden, touching the pedals, breathing chilled morning air. Short hedges lined the edge of the roof so you could see the ocean in all directions, with the coast of what looked like Cyllage City, Kalos to the south. Feet shuffled somewhere to the eastern edge of the roof. Through the trees, two girls stood at the edge of the room, striking a series of fluid poses like a yoga routine. I knew it to be the Ho-Oh salutation, an important prayer in Johtoan shamanism. Every morning, believers look to the east to salute the Sun Bird for all the good work it does bringing light into the world. Hinto sat against a small tree and watched. I sat next to him.

“Do you see her pokémon? It’s pretty,” he whispered and pointed out a pink, birdlike sprite zipping about the air around its trainer. It was a spritzee, a fairy known for its abilities as a healer and protector. Its trainer was fairy-like in her own right, a thin, pale girl whose crop of pinkish red hair stuck to her head like a hat. The other girl was shorter, with dark skin and black hair. Though they were just about in synch, the girls didn’t acknowledge one another’s presence.

“Yeah, it is,”

“Samson hates me,” said Hinto, “My heracross, he thinks I’m weak.”

“Heracrosses are warriors,” I said, “But they’re peaceful until shit goes down. You have something in common.”

“I guess,” he said, ending the topic, “The girls here are really pretty. I guess they only pick the pretty ones. Should I say something?”

“Don’t. This is important to them.”

The girls both spun and fell into a crouch, hands slowly rising, as if lifting the sun from its resting place below the horizon. The fairy spiraled around them like a messenger from the Ho-Oh, showering sparkles that faded in the shade, until the sun finally broke free of the clouds and the horizon to blast the whole rooftop in red light. The sparkles rained down on the cobblestone and into the plants like dandelion seeds on the wind. It was November, but spring was in the air.

The dance ended when the sun was a pink orb in the sky. Hinto clapped as if it was a performance and the red haired girl smiled at us. She turned to say something friendly to the other girl, who just walked away without a word.

“That was really nice,” said Hinto, “Do you do that every day?”

“Every day,” she said, “How long have you been there?”

“I, I saw the whole thing,” Hinto stammered.

“Rose,” she said, extending him a hand. He took it, stood with some effort, “And this is Nurse Joy,” she said, motioning to her fairy.

“Spritzee! Zee!” chirped Nurse Joy.

“I’m Hinto. My pokémon is called Samson, but he’s sleeping in his ball.”

“Castor,” I said when she turned her attention to me.

“I heard all about Hinto and Castor,” Rose said, “Did you really break someone’s arm just for talking to you?”

Hinto turned pink, looked away.

“Self defense,” I explained.

“Is it true?” she asked Hinto.

“He helped me with some bullies,” Hinto squeaked, “He’s a good person. I’d have gotten beaten up if Ging- mean, Castor didn’t save me.” The poor doughboy looked like he was about to explode. I couldn’t imagine he got to talk with girls much at all, let alone having them ask about him.

“You can’t have other people fight your battles in here, Hinto,” said Rose, “We’re all enemies here.”

Silence washed over the three of us like the newborn sunlight.

“Well,” Hinto began, “Castor, maybe you can teach me how to fight. I want to at least be able to stand up for myself.”

I don’t know why I gave him the answer I did, maybe out of blissey-like altruism or some redemptive craving, maybe a last grasp at humanity, “Yeah. I’ll help.”

“I can help too,” said Rose, “We won’t have real friends in the Arena, let’s not even pretend, but everyone has something to learn.”

“Let’s eat first,” said Hinto, already trying to squeeze himself out of the situation.

As he made to walk past me, I barred him with my arm, ball already drawn, “Lesson one: a fight doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Get Samson.”

“But I don’t even know what to do,” he whined.

“Your enemies are counting on that,” the thrum of power rattled my veins. I hate killing, yes, but I sure as hell loved fighting, especially when I’m going to win.

 

The Hinto could barely get his ball to the ground by the time mine burst open with a blast of energy and fire. My new companion rolled across the walkway, then leapt up, “Maka!” it yelped. My companion wasn’t what I expected: a fluffy, red egglike creature, about two feet in height, with eyebrows like gusts of yellow flame, its tiny arms waggling at its sides. It turned to blink childlike eyes at me.

I nodded back at it, but the meaning was lost on it. The creature’s eyes drooped, unconfident. Samson stood patiently, awaiting orders.

“What do I do now?” Hinto asked.

“This,” I spread my feet, swept my hand to signify an order, “Darumaka, use Flare Blitz!”

In the time it took for the darumaka to look back confusedly, Samson had time to scoop it up and throw it across the courtyard.

“Whoa, Hinto!” shouted Rose.

I ran over to my darumaka. Boiling hot blood trickled from its wounds to sizzle on the cobblestone. I picked the little guy up, let the dabs of blood burn the skin off my hands, “I don’t understand.”

Rose knelt at my side, “Nurse Joy do what you can.”

The spritzee lowered its tiny head and hovered above her shoulder, as if making a prayer. The darumaka’s wounds closed, its eyes opened. It wiggled its warm little body out of my hands and waddled away, whining to itself, “Dar-ooh-ooh-maka-maka! Maka-maka!”

Rose did not look impressed, “Have you even used your pokémon before?”

“No,”

“Really? They’re not weapons. You can’t just go around giving orders and breaking arms all the time. You’re just like the people running this place,” she got up, brushed her knee socks, “See, you made me snippy. I don’t think you’re a bad guy, Castor. But people that don’t respect their pokémon bug me. They’re in the same boat as us, confused and scared. Whoever you were before you stepped in here, you’re not that anymore. I’ll see you around,” with that, she ran off to join Hinto for breakfast.

 

I walked up to the darumaka, hiding in a hedge, pulling its bushy eyebrows down over its face. Tears fizzled and evaporated around its eyes.

“Look, I’m sorry,” I told it. The darumaka turned away. A cold gap opened up in my gut, like that sword wound in my dream. Pokémon aren’t weapons, Castor, but you are. Pick up your sword.

I leaned over the path to touch the darumaka, but it but my hand recoiled at a tiny burst of flame from its fur. With nothing left to do, I sat against a tree and watched the darumaka cry until the sky went from gold to blue. If I looked closely enough at the sky, I could make out ripples tracing the air like cloth, a force field, a cage to keep us from throwing ourselves off the roof, to keep us alive until we could be given more entertaining deaths. We were rubber swords, all of us, popguns, tin artillery, and the little lead soldier that would be bowled over to the laughter of children.

The darumaka let me pick it up when it was all cried out. I carried him against my chest and headed downstairs. The other girl, the one that prayed with Rose, leaned against the railing in front of the boy’s dorm, scanning everyone that came out, looking for someone she knew, anyone. She wouldn’t find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. In the original draft, there were three chapters separating the initial Śiva chapter and the Academy chapters, but since then, the number of POVs has jumped from two to four.  
> Can you guess who the next one is?  
> What Pokémon do you hope to see in the Arena?  
> \---  
> Reader Responses:  
> Since this chapter has only been out for a little bit, I'll wait for commentary for a reader responses section.  
> \---  
> Coming Up:  
> Never corner a pokémon, my teachers always said, if cornered, they will fight back. I stood and faced the corner, wiped away a tear. At least I got to see what partner they would’ve given me. I held the ball back for throwing, squeezed my eyes shut. I can do this. Don’t be a coward, you’re on TV. “Go!” - Next Chapter: Owl Judo

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading the inaugural chapter of Pokémon Arena. I'll use these end-of-chapter notes to preview things to come and address reader commentary.  
> \---  
> Reader Responses:
> 
> HopeGale on Fanfiction.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2711224/) took issue with the fact that I chose to describe Pokémon before addressing them by their species name. My solution is this: Don't play Who's That Pokémon. If I describe a creature as a small elephant that rolls up, that's what it is. If I describe a dinosaur with a flower ruff, it's exactly what it sounds like. If the species name is important, you'll know what you're looking at immediately. The given name is more important than the species name. I plan on trimming the descriptions for a smoother read, though.
> 
> Another use on Poké Amino criticized the idea that it's not clear just who is running the politics of Pokémon World. The shady underbelly of the setting will be addressed, just not yet. One of the biggest mysteries of Pokémon is the question of who's in charge. We'll find out, but it's more important to establish the characters and raise the stakes first.  
> To my surprise, readers actually appear to enjoy the story's moody tone. I was actually really apprehensive about mixing such dark themes into Pokémon, a franchise that always kept its dark side tucked away in subtext.
> 
> \---  
> Coming Up: "Welcome to to Academy. Here, you will prepare your minds and bodies for participation in Pokémon Arena, the nation's number one reality TV show! Here you will forge new friendships and rivalries, destinies will be decided, some will come out on top, some will be underdogs... You've each been given a poké ball. The pokémon within will be your partner for the rest of the contest, so you'd better learn to get along! Good luck!" - Next Chapter: "Someone's P.C."


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